


land on you (like a sucker punch)

by orphan_account



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: 2005 or: Blackberry still reigns supreme and Paris Hilton is still relevant, Class Issues, Crimes & Criminals, Dark!Mac, Dennis Reynolds kinking on some truly fucked up shit, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, F/F, For Want of a Nail, M/M, Male Posturing, Slurs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For want of a nail: Dennis and Dee never meet Charlie and Mac in high school. The twins ascend to a disaffected, repressed life in the upper crust while Charlie and Mac descend into a life of dealing drugs and mugging people to get by. Stuck in a sham engagement and numb to substances and sex, Dennis finds himself seeking out increasingly dangerous and dubiously consensual situations in the back alleys of Philadelphia. It is there that Mac finds Dennis, a pretty rich boy who seems disturbingly excited to be violently mugged. It's love at first gunpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Gunpoint

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for rape/dubious consent. Mac and Dennis are both technically consenting in their sexual encounters here, but they're happening under such charged and terrible circumstances that this fic could definitely be triggering to survivors of sexual violence. Trigger warnings also for eating disorders (and explicit purging), heavy substance abuse, homophobic slurs, and homophobic violence. I will post more warnings as they come.
> 
> Note: this fic is getting quite a lot longer than I ever expected. Due to this actually being a story now instead of a one-shot AU, I've updated a few small details to reflect this story having a set time frame in 2005. Feel free to tell me if I make an anachronism in the future or if I missed something.

It’s a cool, damp night in Philadelphia, and Mac is standing in the corner of his favorite alley. There’s an unloaded gun in the pocket of his dark jeans, and the hood of his pleather jacket is pulled up over his head, partially obscuring his face. His stomach has been rumbling for an hour, but he refuses to eat cheap burgers again this week. No, tonight he’s going to mug a rich asshole and then he’s going to eat at Guiginos like a goddamn king.

There’s high traffic of young, upper-middle class men in this area due to it being a district full of coffee shops and boutiques with insane markups. Early October sunsets have blessed him with businesses that are still open when it’s dark outside. It’s almost too easy to fish for prey this time of year; during the autumn and winter, this neighborhood is one of the most lucrative mugging spots in all of South Philadelphia. Used to be that this alley belonged to someone else but the stupid idiot traded it all away for some cocaine cut with cheap baking soda. Now this spot belongs to Mac alone, and like fuck would he ever trade it away for anything.

This particular alley is ideal because of the way it’s angled. Mac can easily profile the passers-by without being seen to see who would be his best victim. Additionally, there’s a dumpster slightly inside the alley that’s a popular spot for people to toss garbage. The cafes on either side of the alley have extremely irregular hours, so there are no shopkeepers in close proximity to see someone being pulled inside. All he has to do is wait for the right fish to swim by so that he can attack and get his lunch.

Just then, a slim man in his mid-twenties stops by the trash can to toss out a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a preppy shirt with a collar and clean khakis. His hair is neatly coiffed and curly, and he has the air of someone who definitely has a lot of money. The stupid, rich asshole only notices he’s not alone when Mac presses his gun to the back of his head and covers his mouth with his hand.

“If you scream, I will kill you,” he whispers menacingly into the man’s ear. Mac pulls him into the alley with little resistance. He walks backwards until they hit a wall, and pulls the gun away from his head. He holds it out in front of himself, and stalks around the man. He stops walking when the gun lines up between the man’s eyes.

“Give me everything you’ve got. Right now,” Mac demands. His victim’s eyes widen in what could best be called an approximation of fear. He’s seen fakers before – usually addicts who’ve heard he’s never had a kill – but this guy doesn’t look like a user. Mac cocks the gun anyway and puts his finger on the trigger for emphasis.

“Easy man,” his victim says in a shaking voice. Weirdly, it sounds more excited than scared. “How about we just talk?”

Mac steps closer, gun still pointed directly between the man’s eyes. “How about you hand over your pretty little phone and we call that a conversation.”

The man quickly rifles in his pocket, pulls out his cell, and hands it over. It’s a Blackberry in one of those wallet cases. Cash is poking out of it. Privileged little bitch. Mac shoves it in his pocket.

“That wasn’t too hard, was it,” Mac says. He taps the man’s cheek with the side of his gun. The man closes his eyes and visibly swallows. “Now hand over everything else.” The man rifles around in his pocket for his (ugh) real wallet, but Mac’s not letting him get off that easy. He puts the barrel of his gun under the man’s chin. “I said everything. Strip. Shoes first.”

The man nods quickly; Mac pulls the gun away. He opens the man’s phone case and peeks around inside it while he watches the man from his peripheral. A pink Blackberry, a few hundred dollar bills, some receipts, and an American Express card with the name ‘Jameson Taft’ inscribed on it. Rich asshole must be a relative. Mac pulls out the receipts, and pockets the phone. He crumples them in his hand.

“Open your mouth,” he says to the man who is just beginning to take off his shirt. The man complies; Mac shoves the receipts in it and smiles. The man has been a fantastic victim altogether so there’s no reason to make him have undue suffering but damn if it isn’t satisfying to make rich assholes suffer anyway.

When the man gets to his underwear, Mac pauses and considers his options. On the one hand, he could have a little fun in this alley dominating this pretty douchebag (and oh – he looks the man up and down - he is very pretty). On the other hand, Guiginos is calling his name and they close in two hours. He needs to get to the sketchy pawn shop before he gets there, and they close even earlier.

“Keep your underwear on. I’m feeling merciful tonight.”

Mac rifles through the man’s pants to steal his wallet and a pair of very nice Gucci sunglasses. He steals the shoes (Coach) and a monogrammed pen.

“You can have everything else. Make yourself decent,” he says, and begins to walk away. Behind him, he hears the wet, crunchy sound of the receipts being spat onto the ground.

 “Is that really all you’re going to do to me?” the man calls down the alley. It’s an accusation, not gratefulness, and the tone makes Mac briefly pause. He turns around; the man is still in his underwear and leaning against the wall. What a fucking weirdo.

“Yeah. Be grateful I didn’t do worse, pretty boy,” he says in the hopes that he’s been misreading every signal this guy’s been throwing off all night. The man sighs.

 “I’m very pretty,” he says pointedly. The man dips the tip of his fingers into his underwear’s waistband. “Isn’t that part of why you chose me tonight?” He pouts in a way that is, admittedly. . .something that Mac likes very much. However his. . .arousal is quickly overrun with incredulity about the batshit situation he has landed himself in.

“Are you _trying_ to get mugged and dominated in an alley?” he says.

The man’s eyes roll so hard that his head rolls along with them. “Is it working?”

Mac briefly rests his face in his palm, and shakes his head. His stomach rumbles insistently.

“I don’t have time for this,” he calls, walking away once more. “Have a nice life, asshole.”

He checks the time on the gay phone. Pawn shop is open for fifteen more minutes. Mac breaks into a sprint, thinking longingly of the steak and lobster that will await him when he’s finally claimed his prizes. He doesn’t look back to see if the weirdo finally cleans himself up. His dinner reservation is only a table for one, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for Blackberries. Truly they reigned as luxury phones in 2005. Let's take a moment of silence to mourn their passing.


	2. Slim Pickings

“I met the weirdest fucking guy last night,” Mac says on exhale of some downright killer weed. He’s passing a joint back and forth with Charlie in the grody basement he calls home. Most of the guys in this house are squatters and dealers, and Mac and Charlie are no exception. There’s definitely mold in the walls and the shag carpet hasn’t been changed since 1975 but beggars can’t be choosers. He passes the joint to Charlie who takes an easy draw on it like it’s fresh air. Kid’s addicted to paint, glue, and booze; he probably barely feels the effects of weed at all.

“Yeah?” asks Charlie. “Who’d you meet?”

Mac takes a sip of his beer, and leans back on his hands. “I was fishing on 14th and I got some rich asshole with brand new Coach shoes. Scared the shit out of him. Real weak dude; it was too easy.”

Charlie nods, and takes a sip of his own beer. “Did you rape him?”

Mac frowns. “I’m not a rapist, Charlie. We’ve been over this. It’s establishing dominance –”

“Yeah ok, whatever,” says Charlie, rolling his eyes. “Did you ‘establish dominance,’” he puts in stupid air quotes. “With this dude?”

“No, man,” says Mac. “I was really hungry so I just wanted to get in and get out. But then this asshole starts telling me how pretty he is–”

Charlie’s eyes open wide in recognition. “Oh, dude. You ran into Dennis Reynolds. He’s fucked up. Parades around popular mugging spots looking to be uh. . .dominated.”

“Why?” asks Mac.

“I dunno dude,” says Charlie, shaking his head. “Like I said, dudes fucked up. His family is super rich; it might be a new rich people game or something.”

Mac huffs out a laugh. “Maybe I should’ve dominated him. Then he’d come back to my spot so I could keep stealing his shit.”

“You could track him down,” says Charlie. “I got a guy –”

“Benny’s a fucking meth addict dude,” says Mac, rolling his eyes. “He’s feeding you bad info about your waitress chick and you’re just giving your product away. Pass the joint.”

Charlie hands it over. “Whatever, dude. You’re gonna be eating your words when I end up with the girl of my dreams and you’re poor cos you didn’t hunt down this weirdo.”

Mac smokes the joint, pulling the smoke deep down into his lungs. He blows the smoke out in rings, and smiles.

“If I wanna get rich and get off, I can track him down myself. Little bitch is asking for it; I don’t need a meth head to tell me that.”

Charlie motions for Mac to hand the joint back over. It’s practically a stub and he’d love to have the rest, but it’s Charlie’s stash and it’s only fair that he gets to finish it.

“Well, you’d better track him down soon before they send him to rich people rehab or whatever. Jack told me we’re gonna have to cut the next batch of coke like crazy and even then supply’s gonna be tight.” Charlie gives him a knowing look. “You’re gonna get slim pickings.”

“Bullshit,” says Mac. “I turn product great.”

“Yeah, but you’re not scary, man,” says Charlie, shaking his head. He takes a last draw on the stub of the joint, then rubs it out on his shoe. “Every addict in Philly knows you don’t kill anyone and you run if anybody has a weapon so you lose profit to assholes who don’t pay.”

“Whatever, man. I’ve been doing great. Have a little faith,” says Mac, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. Charlie is right – not about being scary because Mac is scary as _shit_ , but he’s too merciful and people get away.

Charlie sighs. “All I’m saying is it’s bad for business and if it wasn’t you wouldn’t need so much side action to eat. This fucked up rich dude is a great opportunity.”

“Then why aren’t you taking advantage of it?” asks Mac.

Charlie gives Mac a knowing look. “Because I don’t stick my dick in half the people I mug.”

Mac tangles his hands in the thick shag carpet, and deliberately looks away from Charlie.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. “If I ever see him again. . .I’ll think about it.”


	3. Domination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serious, SERIOUS warnings for guns, physical violence, choking (lite), and, of course, rape/dubious consent. TECHNICALLY both parties want sex to be happening here BUT there's some really really really shady reasons why it's happening and Dennis does not think that Mac knows at the beginning that Dennis was trying to be raped in an alley. Don't try this at home.
> 
> SFW tongue in cheek artwork inspired by this chapter in particular was done by macpennis/sketchlynx here: http://macpennis.tumblr.com/post/143830966968/this-shameful-image-is-inspired-by-nematophilas I'm still giggling about this. Please go give her an inbox high five because this is one of the best things I've ever seen. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone in the personal shame corner who read this before I put it out there.
> 
> By the way the title is from Novocaine by Fall Out Boy. I'm sure they'd be so proud to have their lyrics plastered all over this fic.

Charlie is right about one thing – the shipment of coke that comes in is truly pathetic. There’s so little of it, in fact, that Mac only gets enough to dime off on one of his single teenage regulars. Kid’s rich, but the payout isn’t nearly enough. Money becomes tight very quickly and his meals get smaller. When his cash dwindles down to fifty dollars, Charlie’s proposition into his head. Sure it’s a fucked up way to get cash flow but – everybody needs bread.

The best place Mac can think of to hook this guy again is in his original spot, so he stakes it out for the next several days. He nabs three guys in the meantime (and dominates two of them) but none of them are as wealthy as king douchebag. Credit card wannabees with no cash or expensive pawn items, every single one. Mac has seen enough of his criminal buddies jailed to know that he doesn’t want to get caught up in identity theft. So, all in all, he’s been having a pretty shit time waiting for this rich asshole to swim by again.

On the third day, Mac finally spots him. He’s sipping something green this time, practically fellating the straw with his tongue in between sips. The v-neck of the shirt he’s wearing shows off his pecs and his shorts are practically daisy dukes, expertly fitted to the small curvature of his ass. He nonchalantly tosses his drink in the trash and flicks the moisture off of his fingers. Mac is on him in an instant. He holds his unloaded gun to Dennis’s head.

“If you scream, I will kill you,” he says in his toughest voice. He wraps his arm around Dennis, and grabs his crotch forcefully. The bitch is already hard and whimpers in arousal. Sick bastard.

“What do you want?” asks Dennis in a breathy voice. Mac lets go of his crotch.

“Do everything I say and I might let you live,” he says. Then he walks in front of Dennis and points the gun between his eyes. “Move.”

Dennis’s eyes narrow in disappointment at the sight of Mac’s face. “You stole everything last time. I don’t have anything else,” he lies.

Mac pushes him forcefully against a wall. “I didn’t ask for your input. Strip!”

“Fine. . .fine. Let’s get this over with,” Dennis says in a bored tone. He strips down to his underwear and kicks the clothes over to Mac. Mac steps over them and points the gun at his genitals.

“Underwear too,” he says.

“Oh. My mistake,” says Dennis, taken aback. Mac swallows a lump of arousal in his throat.

“Hurry up,” he says hoarsely. “Before I do it for you.”

With shaking hands, Dennis removes his underwear. His dick is gorgeous, pink and full. Mac steps forward, and puts his gun under Dennis’s throat. He wraps his hands around Dennis’s dick and slowly pulls. Dennis moans softly.

“I didn’t finish what I started last time,” says Mac in a low voice. He pushes harder on Dennis’s chin with his gun so that Dennis’s whole head tilts back. “I’m about to show you exactly what I do to pretty boys like you when I have all the time in the world.”

“Please. . .don’t. . .” Dennis says, weakly. Mac slides his free hand behind Dennis’s back, buries his face in his victim’s neck, and licks from his collarbone to the top of his throat.

“I know you want it you slutty little fag,” he whispers into Dennis’s ear. Mac presses on his windpipe gently with his thumb. Dennis’s breathing becomes shallow and labored and for the first time, real fear appears on his face. Mac smiles. “I’m gonna show you what a real man looks like. Get on your knees!”

He pulls both hands away. Dennis drops to the ground, staring off into the distance with a faraway look on his face. Mac grips his gun tighter, and taps Dennis’s cheek with it.

“Did I say you could look away from me?” he growls. Dennis looks up at his face, punch-drunk.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasps. “Please. . .don’t hurt me again.”

His words are halfhearted and empty. Dennis’s dick is still hard and so are his nipples. He’s sweating heavily enough that the faint streetlights make him glisten. Mac steps forward until his crotch is inches from Dennis’s face. He uses the hand holding his pistol to push Dennis’s face into his jeans. Mac grinds against Dennis’s pretty mouth. When he pulls away, there’s lipstick on his jeans. Lipstick on a man – disgusting! He slaps Dennis across the face with his gun, and Dennis cries out in pain.

“What kind of a man wears lipstick?!” he growls.

“I just like to feel pretty,” Dennis whimpers, pathetically holding his face.

Mac cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders. He looks down at Dennis and feels nothing but fury. “You disgust me.”

Enough playing around. Mac fumbles with his belt and undoes his pants. He pulls out his dick; it’s throbbing painfully. The rage has only made him harder; he’s laughably more powerful than this man and it’s time he shows it.

“Open your mouth, whore.”

The hungry little bitch is obedient. Mac shoves his dick in roughly, deep enough that Dennis gags. He facefucks Dennis so hard that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. When the man seems to struggle for breath, Mac only increases the rate of his thrusts. When he’s close, he claws his free hand into Dennis’s back, and grunts. God, it feels so good to be powerful over this pathetic little fag. He’ll remember this night for the rest of his life. Mac will own this man forever and he’ll never live a moment without wanting Mac to show him who’s boss ever again. He’ll make Mac rich and, and, ah-

Mac spills into Dennis’s mouth with a low groan. He points the gun at Dennis and says breathlessly, “You’d better swallow, cumslut.”

He pulls out. Some of the cum drips down Dennis’s lips and chin. He swallows what’s left inside, then coughs as though he was drowning. Mac points to his own dick with the gun.

“Clean off any cum that’s leftover.”

Dennis licks his dick clean until the only messy thing left is his own face. Mac smiles in satisfaction.

“Stand,” he demands. Dennis complies without even needing threats like the obedient bitch he is. God, up close his mouth is so pretty, especially smeared with Mac’s cum. Mac runs his hand through Dennis’s sweaty hair, pulling harshly when his fingers encounter tangles. The man winces as he pants for breath, pale and weak in the moonlight. His lipstick is smeared with Mac’s cum and that fucking lipstick – it needs to go.

Mac licks around Dennis’s mouth, cleaning off the lipstick and cum with his tongue. He tongues the inside of Dennis’s mouth too, tasting his victory. He holds Dennis’s head with his free hand to get a better angle, wicks away sweat with his thumb. On a soft ‘oh’ Dennis cums with a shudder, narrowly missing Mac’s clothes. Mac pulls away in surprise.

“What the fuck?” He hastily tucks his dick back into his underwear and zips his pants.

Dennis wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, eyes glassy. He doesn’t even seem to register Mac’s shock.

“Holy shit,” he says. “That was even better than I thought it would be. Do you rape all your victims that thoroughly or am I special?”

He says this with the air of someone having a dinner party conversation. Mac isn’t a rapist but –

“You’re special,” he says, and Dennis’s face lights up the night.

“I knew it. It’s the V-neck, right? Very low.” He draws a suggestive line from his chin to his chest using his index finger and smiles. “Thought it was a great touch. Just the right amount of ‘asking for it’ without being too obvious and tacky.”

“Uh, sure,” says Mac, trying to sound interested instead of uncomfortable and confused. “You’re really rich too so that was a big part of it,” he adds, just in case the man has forgotten that he’s technically being mugged too.

Dennis nods thoughtfully. “Well then, I suppose you want my wallet. It’s smaller than usual – regular size didn’t fit in the dukes, unfortunately – but it has cash in there and a debit card too. Though I noticed you didn’t use any cards last time.” He scans Mac’s body up and down, lingering on his worn clothes and shoes. “Why not? You’re poor.”

Mac curls in on himself a bit defensively. “I get by. I don’t wanna get caught.” He grips the gun in his hand; no, he’s not the one that has explaining to do today. Mac stands up straighter and rests the gun threateningly in his palm. “Listen, I’m about done with all your lip, asshole. Give me your wallet and everything else before I stop being nice and I blow a hole right through you.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “One track mind. You can take it any time you want. You’re the one with the weapon. I don’t even have any clothes.”

Goddammit. He’s right – Mac is taking way too long. Mac points the gun at him as he squats on the ground to rifle through Dennis’s clothes. “Don’t move,” he says.

“Can’t go anywhere like this anyway,” says Dennis, sounding exasperated. “I didn’t bring a phone with me so that’s why it’s not in there. It’s not up my ass or something.” He squeezes his plump cheek, and taps it lightly. “You can look for yourself though if you’re not convinced.”

Mac looks up at Dennis’s face – the man is dead serious. He sighs. “I don’t need shit on my hands tonight. If you have something in there, you can keep it.”

“My asshole is as pure as driven snow!” cries Dennis, sounding wounded. “What kind of a victim do you think I am?”

Mac gives him a disgusted look. “Normal victims don’t parade around with clean assholes. So I’d say the kind of victim you are is a pervert.”

“There’s nothing perverted about good hygiene,” says Dennis. “Or for anticipating the worst, either. It’s not my fault your other victims have set the bar so low.”

Finally, Mac gets his hands on the wallet; he pockets it and stands up. He taps Dennis on the cheek with his gun; touching the already bruised flesh makes Dennis involuntarily whimper. Mac smiles like a shark.

“We’re done here. Thanks for the cash, pretty boy. One last thing -” He pushes his body flush to Dennis’s as he’s done to so many other victims before. The man smells of sweat and dirt and sex and it’s all Mac can do to not rut into Dennis again. However this part – this was the most important in domination. This was how his victims didn’t forget him.

Mac kisses Dennis on the lips, chaste at first before teasing his tongue in. The kissing only lasts for thirty seconds every time, but it’s enough to count. When Mac pulls his mouth away, Dennis looks punch drunk.

“If you had my ATM number, would you use my debit card?” he mumbles.

“Uh. . .is that an offer?” asks Mac. Up close, this man has disconcerting eyes – clear blue but vacant all the way down. For the first time, Mac gets the sneaking feeling that he’s not the only fisherman here.

“There’s a number on the back of a yogurt punch card in that wallet. Last four digits are the ATM number until Tuesday.” He tilts his mouth closer to Mac’s. “If you want to know how to get into the account after Tuesday, I guess you’ll have to come get me again.”

Mac blinks several times out of shock as warmth spreads through his chest. Holy shit. Charlie’s plan worked. He’s scored a free ticket to paradise.

The man’s plump lips taste sweet the third time they kiss. “Keep wearing lipstick and I’ll have no choice,” he says when they finally come up for air. “I can’t control myself around men who wear makeup.”


	4. Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to switchadelphia. Get some writing done now, girl!
> 
> Trigger warning for body image and eating disorders because I guess I can't write Dennis for a certain amount of time without writing that too.

Dennis always sets his alarm three times to snooze before he wakes up in the morning. Despite his exhaustion, he sticks to routine and doesn’t sleep late. It helps that by the time ‘Hip to be Square’ plays the third time, sunlight is peeking through the curtains of his canopy bed. The yellow light turns the inside of his eyelids from black to pink; he cracks them open to greet the day. Or, rather, to greet his schedule. He reaches for his phone, and scrolls over to his calendar.

One PM. Multiple sclerosis charity benefit. Seven PM. Date – Guiginos. Nine PM – Meal concludes. Ruby stays the night.

Dennis groans and flops his palm over his face. Thursday – worst day of the week. Dinner and drinks with a lesbian that he brings home to bang his sister. Truly, everything he ever wanted out of life. He slides his finger down his face and sits up. A large bottle (Wine? Champagne?) rolls off the bed with a thunk. His head is swimming and his mouth is fuzzy– just another day in paradise.

He swings his legs over the other side of the bed, and casually feels to see if it’s cold. Nobody slept here last night. Dennis looks down at the floor to see what the bottle that fell off the bed was. Absolut vodka, and it’s not the only one. He rubs his right eye with the butt of his hand. Thank God he didn’t mix red wine and Xanax again or he’d be hungover as fuck. That shit’s great but sends him into a trance where he’ll drink fucking anything and outside of the hangover, Absolut is better calorie-wise anyway. He can deal with light sensitivity but there’s no going back on a sugar binge. Liquid calories are a useless purge.

Dennis opens the canopy, and squints at the sunshine. He fumbles around for his phone again, picks it up, and checks the time. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time to get ready. A casual suit is hung up on his door hook, left there by a quiet servant early in the morning. He walks over to it, and rustles the fabric in his hand. It’s his favorite for the autumn – navy blue with a breathable jacket and a maroon tie. Emphasizes his thighs and waist with a tailored cut. Dennis smiles faintly, pleased. He’ll be comfortable all day, despite its multiple demands.

He stretches his arms above his head, and pads over to his master bathroom. The plush, clean carpet gives pleasantly under the light weight of his feet. Dennis shuts the door (routine, not privacy) and looks at himself in the body length mirror. Mussed hair and smudged eyeliner compliment his artfully torn sleeveless bed shirt. His boxers hang loosely on his hips; they were snug when he bought them. Dennis taps at the bulge under his chin with his knuckle, then tilts his head down until the bulge touches his chest. He presses at the fold of skin between his chin and the bulge. Double chin - a glaring imperfection. Dammit.

Dennis slowly strips nude, keeping eye contact with the mirror the entire time. He’s with someone just as often as he is alone when he does this, so it’s important to see if he conducts his undressing with grace. As ever, his movements are polished and smooth. He stands straight, and examines the rest of his body.

It’s shocking how much body fat even the fittest person’s body can hold onto. Dennis pinches his stomach with two hands, feeling for a morning with give rather than resistance when he squeezes but still – the thin layer of fat remains. He frowns as he reaches down to squeeze at his inner. thighs. Dennis has attained the elusive thigh gap (and oh, how he’s proud of that fact) but still he can see cellulite when he squints. As he pulls up, he squeezes at his back to feel for any fold of back fat but, blissfully, there is only skin. He watches himself run two fingers over his jutting collarbone, encircles his wrist with his index finger and thumb. The tips of his fingers stroke his ribs, feeling the familiar indents they make against his skin. He flexes his pecs and his abs, testing their strength. Finally, he laces his fingers together and reaches towards the sky, stretching his body out until it’s long and lean. He imagines himself pulled taut like taffy and proportioned to his liking, the fat drained out of him until he is inhumanly beautiful. Dennis drops his hands and his body sags with him. Almost there.

Dennis pulls the scale out from underneath the sink with his foot. He raps it with his fist, and steps on, pulling his spine as straight as possible. After a few seconds, he gazes down at the scale and scowls. 128. 5 lbs. Two pounds heavier than yesterday. He presses on his stomach, flattening it. More stimulants, less booze today. But first – shower.

He takes his time lathering and conditioning his hair until it’s the perfect texture for gel (smooth but not too much), and washes his upper body with a loofah. Dennis is in no mood for a treat this morning (damn two pounds) so he jerks off hard and fast to release pressure, not thinking of anything or anyone in particular as he reaches a mediocre climax. The rest of his shower passes quickly – it gets too steamy after he jerks off to stay in there much longer than necessary. When he turns the water off, he stands dripping in the shower for a moment, counting the rungs on the curtain as the water on his skin cools. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking the water from it. Grabbing a towel from a convenient shelf next to the shower, he steps out, dries off, and ties it around his waist. Time for the piece de resistance – makeup.

Dennis opens the drawer to a rainbow of pencils, blushes, liners, lipsticks, glosses, brushes, lotions, exfoliators, liquids, powders, and cakes. He pulls out an exfoliating face cream (diamonds, and none of that fake dollar shit that poses for the real thing), and spreads it over his face with his index and middle finger. The creases in his face (and the bulge under his chin) get the most exfoliating attention. Smoothing out the skin doesn’t get rid of them like harsh restriction or Botox would, but it helps. He rinses the goop off of his face with cold water, and pats his face dry with a towel. After thoroughly brushing his teeth, he carefully chooses his makeup and places it on the counter. Dennis examines his face once more for problem areas, sighs, and gets to work.

His foundation handily is a two-in-one with moisturizer; it feels silky on his skin. Dennis methodically blends it, focusing on the soothing feel of his fingers against his cheeks and neck. Light contour next – emphasize artful hollows he doesn’t quite have yet – followed by eyeliner (liquid for base and wing followed by a pencil to prevent the appearance of chipping), a dash of blush, mascara (curls his eyelashes wonderfully) and finally, lipstick. In the spirit of winter colors, Dennis chooses a muted red. Perfect.

After shoving all his makeup back into its drawer, he braces his hands on the bathroom counter and sighs. Time for breakfast.

Dennis swings the bathroom cabinet open and pulls out a handful of pill bottles. He makes quick work of them – Ritalin, Phentermine, caffeine, Adderall, Vicodin, Advil – and pulls his small flask of vodka from under the sink. Dennis turns away from the mirror as he chases his pills with the smallest shot of vodka he can muster. They go down easy.

As he leaves the bathroom, he hears his phone chirp. He's received an email informing him that there's been activity on his account. The man who attacked him has actually been using his card. Rare excitement swells inside him. His scheme worked – everything that made him feel whole for ten minutes is going to happen again.  

Dennis doesn’t put on underwear that morning. Something bad could happen to him at any time now, and he needs to be prepared for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus I can't believe I wrote 1200 words about Dennis getting ready in the morning. A cookie to the first person who figures out the obvious homage.
> 
> Writing disaffected rich Dennis was a lot of fun. I've always sort of wanted to write about his morning routine and this was a good time.


	5. Ruby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued cw for eating disorders on chapter 5 and chapter 6.

The multiple sclerosis benefit goes on for hours, and by the end of it Dennis is fucking wired. His best friend Xanax, king of chill, is hardly helping at all. This is no doubt due to the enormous amount of specialty cheese and wine shoved at him the entire afternoon. He can’t be high profile at a wine and cheese event without tasting the product, after all. By the end of the event, he’s uncomfortably full. The fat and sugar make quick work of seeping into his skin and weighing him down. There’s no time to piss either, let alone purge, and he’s not going to break his high society reputation by debasing himself at a public event anyway. Rumors fly about him, but so far nothing has stuck and he’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

The fact that he has to somehow eat dinner and keep it down now is daunting. However, there are rarely photographers stalking his Thursday dates (he’s no Kim Kardashian). If everything goes bottoms-up so to speak, it will be on the down low. Ruby certainly won’t be talking – if anyone knows a thing about secrets, it’s her.

He arrives at Guiginos early, as per usual, and requests specialty seating upstairs. They know his face now, and happily oblige. Dennis orders a vodka seltzer with ice. He pre-orders Ruby a cosmo; the red compliments her eyes. His drink comes out quickly (blessings of a simple order) and he stirs it with its thin straw between sips, staring off into space as he does so. He roots around his brain for topics of conversation – business, news, compliments. It’s hazy inside his head, so it helps to be prepared.

When he’s drunk enough vodka seltzer that the gas begins to bloat his stomach, he lets go of his straw and picks up a spoon. Dennis inspects his distorted face in both the concave and convex sides of the spoon. Greasy. He turns away from the table, grabs his powder, brush, and mirror from a side bag ( _not_ a purse), and lightly dusts his face. Better.

Ruby arrives shortly after, stunning as ever in a green dress, hair tied up in an elegant braided knot. He stands up to greet her, and kisses her hand. “Enchante,” he says. She smiles tightly in response. “The pleasure is all mine.” Routine.

The waiter brings over her cosmo. She thanks him with a tight look on her face. Ruby has a beautiful face, but she’s destined for wrinkles if she keeps this up.

“I ordered your drink before you got here,” he explains before she can ask.

“How . . . thoughtful of you,” she says. She takes a sip of it, and winces. “That’s strong.”

“You get your money’s worth,” he says, stirring his drink. Dennis takes a sip.

“Mhm,” she says, and then in a lower voice, “So what’s in yours? Anything extra?”

“Vodka seltzer with ice. Crystal clear.” He smiles.

Ruby tilts her head towards the ceiling, closes her eyes, and sighs. “Thank God.”

“I did take some Xanax before I got here,” he says, gazing into his glass. His drink is almost gone – dammit. “You know. Prescription. Very stressful day.”

Ruby responds by rolling her eyes and taking another sip of her cosmo. After placing it daintily back onto its napkin she says, “So, how’s your sister?”

Dennis downs the rest of his drink, and places his glass at the side of the table to signify that he wants a refill. “Awful, as usual,” he replies. “She won’t stop talking about this movie she saw, _Rent_ – ”

Before Dennis can finish his train of thought, the waiter stops at their table. “Are you ready to order?” he asks.

Dennis hasn’t looked at the menu; even thinking about food is disgusting and he’s been putting it off as long as possible.

“I think I need a few more minutes,” he says. “Also, another vodka-seltzer would be great.”

“I need a little more time too. I’d also like a glass of the house white, please,” says Ruby. She smiles charmingly at the waiter.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” he says with a curt nod. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

The waiter leaves. Ruby flips open her menu.

“It’s funny but I was _so_ distracted by thinking about your _lovely_ sister that I forgot to even look at the menu,” she says nonchalantly.

“You must be confused,” he says. Dennis skims over to the salad section; his stomach rolls in discomfort. “I only have one sister and ‘lovely’ is the last word I would use to describe her. Unless ‘lovely’ means ‘angry’ to you in which case yes, she’s very lovely.”

“Glad we’re in agreement,” she says, smiling. Ruby looks up from her menu and closes it. “So she liked _Rent,_ then? I recommended it.”

“She’s been blasting the music at top volume all goddamn week. Yeah, I’d say she liked it,” he says. Goddammit, the more he looks at this list the sicker he feels. He closes the menu – Caesar salad is pretty safe, which is why he always ends up ordering it.

The waiter arrives back with their drinks, and places them on the table. “Have you decided what you’re going to order?”

“I’ll have the chicken francaise,” says Ruby.

“A Caesar salad for me,” says Dennis. The two of them hand off their menus.

“I’ll be back with your food shortly,” says the waiter. He leaves again.

Dennis knocks back a gulp of his vodka seltzer sans straw. He’s not nearly drunk enough to talk in detail about his sister. The liquid is only adding to his growing feeling of uncomfortable fullness. Fuck – he’s going to have to do something about this.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says. “Be right back.”

Ruby narrows her eyes. She picks up her fork, and twirls it around in her fingers. “Fine. Don’t have too much fun in there without me.”

Dennis gives her an awkward thumbs up and speedwalks away. He pretends to not hear her when she mumbles the word, “Pillhead” under her breath.


	6. Golden Ticket

Despite being such a classy establishment, the bathroom at Guiginos is very run of the mill. There are no attendants, and the sink doesn’t even have rocks in it. The best that could be said about it is that it’s clean and doesn’t smell terrible most of the time. Unfortunately, Dennis has no choice but to ruin the latter positive attribute today.

Purging has never come easily to Dennis. Eating food and tossing it back is very much in the shameful realm of his sister’s terrible weight loss regime. Vomiting is disgusting, overall ineffective, and most of all reflects a lack of self-control in the face of temptation. However, sometimes forces beyond his control make it necessary so – here he is. Hand down his throat in a single stall public restroom dry heaving for going on five minutes. He’s always used some sort of emetic in the past to speed along the process; going without is way harder than Dee makes it look.

Finally, Dennis stumbles upon his golden ticket to relief. He heaves and all of it comes out in several powerful waves, thankfully not getting on his clothes or anywhere else it’s not supposed to be. It’s unfortunate that he knows exactly how to make purging look like it never happened, but useful all the same. He dabs his mouth with some toilet paper (thank god he chose to switch out lipstick for lip stain before dinner), tosses it in the toilet, and flushes it with the butt of his palm. Before he leaves the stall, someone else comes into the room, and knocks on the door.

“Hey, did you just throw up in there? It smells bad,” a weirdly familiar voice says.

“Yeah,” Dennis says. No use in lying if someone can tell.

“Are you sick? I don’t wanna go in there if you’re sick,” the man says.

“It’s fine. I’m just drunk,” Dennis lies. He exits the stall and almost walks into – well, goddamn. The last person he would have ever expected to run into in broad daylight. His two-time mugger’s eyes widen at the sight of Dennis’s face.

“Uh. . .hi?” he squeaks.

Dennis desperately needs to wash his vomit encrusted hand, but he can’t seem to move. He rakes his eyes over the man’s body, aghast at how different he looks. His eyes are brown and soft, and his face is boyish and nonthreatening. Without his beat-up leather jacket, he appears to be a lot smaller too. The hooded sweatshirt he’s wearing has holes in it and is a size too big. In fact, everything he’s wearing is too big; his small, muscular frame is drowning in his clothes. If Dennis had been even a little larger or stronger, this man would not have been a threat at all. In daylight, the word for him definitely isn’t ‘scary’ – it’s ‘hungry.’

“Paying with my money tonight?” Dennis finally asks. The man nods dumbly in response. “Good boy.”

“I need to um –” the man points at the stall, blushing.

“Oh!” says Dennis, finally jolted from his reverie. “Yea. Of course. Uh –” He steps out of the way, and allows the man into the stall. Then he turns to the mirror to inspect how he looks post-purge.

He doesn’t look bad, all things considered. Dennis’s mascara and eyeliner are waterproof, so his tears have left them undisturbed for the most part. His eyes are red, but he has no makeup with him to replace the effects of a thorough rinsing. Dennis washes his hands thoroughly, dries them, and then grabs another paper towel. He daubs his eyes with it to make their watering less obvious. As he’s rinsing his mouth, the man says, “Hey, did you make yourself throw up?”

Dennis spits out the water, and turns off the sink. “What?”

“You had puke on your hand. I saw a movie once where a girl made herself throw up because she wanted to be skinny. Were you doing that?”

His voice is an even mixture of confusion and concern. Dennis has to hold back laughter; two days ago this man raped him in an alley, and today he’s concerned about Dennis puking up his dinner.

“I’m naturally thin. I don’t need to do things like that,” says Dennis. “Why do you care?”

“I just never met anyone who did that in real life.” He flushes the toilet. “It’s kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah, it is,” says Dennis as the man leaves the stall to wash his hands. The roll of toilet paper is very obviously tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. “Is my checking account all out of money already?”

The man’s face flushes. “No. I just like to stock up.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Stock up by buying it. Here –” he rustles around in his pants and pulls out a few twenties, then shoves them into the other man's jean pocket. Dennis leaves his hand in there for a bit too long as he says in the sexiest voice he can muster, “Buy yourself something nice. Name-brand toilet paper. Silk boxers. New sheets. As long as you find me and hurt me by Tuesday you can have anything you want.” He removes his hand from the man’s pocket, and pats it. “Consider this incentive to really go to town.”

The man swallows. “Could I just do it now?”

Dennis shakes his head, grips the door, and opens it for both of them. “No. Surprise me later. Right now, I have a date.”


	7. B-side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is officially the longest Sunny fic I have ever written. Idk what I've gotten myself into but I guess this is my life now. An alley dubcon AU is my longest Sunny fic. God help me.
> 
> Thanks to switchadelphia, hobnailedboots, macpennis, and meowreenpawnderosa for all the critique, love, ideas, and support. They've been huge influences on the past (and future) of this fic and they're fun people to boot :)
> 
> This is basically a companion piece to chapter 4. I had a lot of fun with that and I hope you enjoy it too.
> 
> cw for eating disorders and mentions of abuse
> 
> Thanks to zloyikot for my tumblr icon based on chapter 4

Dee never has to set an alarm in the morning; Dennis’s wakes her up just fine. Thanks to generous chemical 'help', he sleeps great, but Dee isn’t so lucky. She waits in bed until the last alarm rings before starting to get ready anyway. It feels good to at least pretend she’s as well rested as he is.

On the third alarm, she picks up her rhinestone-encrusted phone and closes one eye so she can focus while trying to figure out what time it is. 10:30, which gives her approximately fifteen minutes to get ready before mom and dad start telling her how lazy she is at breakfast. Dee leaps out of the bed, narrowly missing an empty flask, grabs her phone and a towel, and dashes to the hall bathroom to start her day.

Despite not technically being her own, the hall bathroom has the effect of immediately bringing Dee to a state of zen. Her shoulders unclench as she steps up to the mirror and tilts her head up, inspecting her neck and collarbone. It doesn’t jut out weirdly like Dennis’s does; the definition is under a small layer of soft, feminine flesh. Ten pounds and her neck won’t look out of place in People magazine. She smiles at the thought. Almost there.

Dee unbuttons her loose, checkered fleece shirt and allows it to fall on the ground behind her. She examines her breasts in the mirror, weighing them with her hands and pushing them together to inspect their cleavage. Mom’s always commenting on how tiny they are, but talent scouts aren’t in the business of getting under women’s shirts. Until she is famous and rich enough on her own merits to buy herself a boob job, stuffing and pushing them up will work just fine. After that, her formerly tiny boobs will be nothing but memoir fodder.

Her underwear comes off next in a way that is unfortunately not very graceful. Bending in certain positions still really hurts her back, so she winces as she pulls the string of the thong down her legs. Her long toes get stuck in the string just like always, so she hops around for a second until they’re finally off. Dee drops them on the floor, sits down nude on the toilet, and hangs her head so her hair falls over her face. She breathes steady, deep breaths, massages her hands, and cracks her back. Then she stands again and flips her hair away from her face. No time to waste this morning; she can be sore on a day when she gets up earlier.

Dee pulls her scale out from beside the toilet. She hits it with her heel until it zeroes out and then steps on. Her back cracks again as she tries to stand up as straight and tall as possible – not completely straight (another thing for the memoir), but enough to evenly distribute her weight. 128.5 pounds. She pokes her stomach and frowns. Her goal is 120 pounds, and these last eight are being a real pain in the ass to lose. Dee steps off the scale and moves it to the other side of the bathroom. She steps on again. The number doesn’t change.

She forcefully kicks the scale back into its spot, and turns on the shower. Dee runs her fingers under the faucet until the water is almost scalding, turns the shower head on, and steps in. As the water pressure beats aggressively against her sore back, she sighs with pleasure. This part of her morning routine is always what makes her late but- fuck it. A long, hot shower is worth any abuse she gets later.

Dee lathers up her hair with expensive moisturizing shampoo stolen from Dennis's shower. She massages her (unfortunately oily) scalp. She rinses, conditions, and leaves it in as she washes her body and face with lavender soap. Her hands creep down to softly stroke her thighs and stomach. The numbers on the scale flash through her mind as her hands go lower; she pulls them away and shoves her head under the spray of water again. Some of her hair comes out in her fingers as she roughly rinses for the second time. Dee watches the clumps of dead hair wash down the drain with a sense of satisfaction. Good riddance.

When her shower is finished, she turns off the water, and watches the steam rise and rise. Dee squeezes her hair with both hands, straining the water out of it. When the thick air becomes oppressive, she opens the curtain, dries off, and wraps the towel around her hair. Makeup time.

Dee’s opens her makeup drawer, and rifles her hand around inside it to shuffle the contents and see what’s inside. Dennis is constantly stealing her shit when he’s high, so much so that she has to hide staples, and, predictably, there are things missing. A few lipliners that she wasn’t too fond of anyway, green eyeshadow that will look terrible on him, tacky cherry flavored gloss, and a pink lipstick that Dee had worn just last week. Her mother had told her it made her look like a street walker. The irony – Dennis was probably going to use it to pick up some infested club dude and smear it all over his dick. She grabs a similar matte pink lip crayon, and slams the door shut. Fuck them both, honestly.

She squats down, and opens the cabinet under the sink. After rifling around for a minute, she pulls out a small box with a word lock. ‘S-T-A-R’ and the box clicks open. She stands up, and places the box on the counter. Dennis never steals from this one – he doesn’t mess with her things when he’s sober, and he’s too stupid when he’s fucked up to figure out the password. Everything that makes her look the best is in this box. Foundation that matches her skin perfectly. Exfoliating cream, non-clumping mascara, and small bottles of expensive mousse. She pulls out the Holy Grail: her perfect, no smear, no chip, long lasting liquid liner. Dee closes her eyes, and rolls it between her fingers. The embossed lettering on it is worn; it’s comforting. She sighs, and opens her eyes. Time to get to work.

Dee’s regular makeup routine is much simpler than her brother’s. She has no patience for contouring and, honestly, it makes Dennis look disgusting anyway. Dennis thinks he looks like a supermodel, but rumors of his anorexia have been passed back and forth between the elite for a long time. He looks a little too thin on his best days and sickly on his worst days. Dumbass.

She smooths her foundation over her face, careful to conceal the bags under her eyes and the blotches on her cheeks. Light pink blush creates the appearance of girlish cheekbones. She applies her liner with a steady hand. Dee’s grabs her crayon, opens the top, and then hesitates. If this ends up being a Bad Morning, she’ll be back in here thirty minutes from now, acidifying her teeth and ruining her makeup with the door locked. She puts the crayon and the rest of her makeup back. There have been a lot of Bad Mornings lately; it’s no big deal other than being disgusting. She’ll finish her routine later.

Her hairdryer is tied to the pipes in the cabinet under the sink using its own cord. After moussing and blow-drying her hair, she puts the dryer back under the sink, and ties it down to the pipes once more. Then she kicks the cabinet shut, braces herself against the sink, and takes a long look in the mirror.

She’s no Anne Hathaway (yet), but she’s not too far off from a solid Rachel McAdams. Dee blows herself a kiss, stands up straighter, and turns away from the mirror. The bathroom door seems miles and miles away. She clenches her fists tightly. Every actress has to pay her dues somehow; today might be the last Bad Morning she ever has before she’s whisked away to stardom. Dee steels herself, and opens the door. One more Bad Morning is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Time to pay her dues.


	8. The Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobic slurs, substance abuse, and Dennis trying to egg someone else into violence/sexual violence.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who subscribed to this fic in my absence. I needed some distance from it for personal reasons but I'm back at least for today and it was fun working on it again. I feel like this chapter really emphasizes some character motivations that may have not been clear before and I hope you like it.
> 
> Also this is sort of a story now which is why I updated the summary? I just wanted it to better reflect the actual story and I also didn't want to be so flippant about its topic.

**One Month Earlier**

It’s two doses of E and three hours into the rave when Dennis finally gets up the nerve to do what he came for. The strobe lights are almost too disorienting to see anything, but luckily, Dennis has practice. His skin thrums as he scans the room, looking for the perfect man to fuck him senseless. All the men who have talked to Dennis tonight have been pretty little twinks, skinny-fat with no muscle definition and too much neon eyeshadow. They’re sloppy and wasted by eleven o'clock, barely legal and too young to hold their liquor. Dennis knows for a fact that none of the buff men on Craigslist will take them - even he’s been judged as too feminine for that disgusting site, a truly ludicrous assumption. He can pitch and catch, thank you very much, and so what if he prefers the latter? Everyone’s looking for bottoms but nobody wants the baggage.

After three more songs, the club gets respite from the strobe lights. Dennis finally gets a good look at the bar, and immediately spots the perfect guy. He’s buff and handsome but drinking an appletini. His eyes are lingering on a flock of tipsy twinks several years his junior. Dennis is twenty-four but looks five years younger due to his flawless skin and diligent weight maintenance. He never gained the freshman fifteen and tonight that will be to his advantage. He strolls over, graceful in his ecstatic confidence, and slides into the barstool next to the man. His catch looks Dennis up and down, and smiles seductively.

“Hey, pretty boy. Can I buy you a drink?”

Dennis smiles back, genuine, driven by the warmth of the drugs. “Vodka. On the rocks.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking vodka straight?” the man asks. He flags down the bartender with a come hither motion.

“I’m old for my age,” says Dennis. “You could say I was born to be bad.”

His words drip with lust. It’s a cheesy line, one that Dennis has definitely stolen from somewhere else, but the man takes it anyway.

“I’m Adrian,” he says, leaning closer.

“Dennis,” says Dennis. He spreads his legs slightly to make his intentions crystal clear. Adrian raises his eyebrows.

“Bartender, one vodka on the rocks and a rum and coke. Put it on my tab.”

***

It’s not long before Adrian and Dennis are grinding on the dance floor, drunk on each other almost as much as the liquor. Adrian slides his thumbs into Dennis’s belt loops and murmurs into his ear, “You pitching or catching tonight?”

Dennis melts into the kiss on the neck that follows. “I catch,” he moans.

With that, Adrian grabs him by the wrist and drags him towards the bathroom to fuck in private. He locks the door, and sensually pushes Dennis up against a wall. No- that’s not what Dennis came for tonight. He turns his head away when Adrian leans in for a kiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Dennis sighs. “I need you to handle me rougher than that. Do it again.”

Adrian responds to his request with a look of utter bafflement. These club gays were always so dense.

“I don’t understand. Do what again?”

“Throw me against the wall,” says Dennis. He stares deeply into Adrian’s eyes, and then grins wickedly. “Show me what those muscles are for, big boy. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Uh. . .ok.” He pulls Dennis away from the wall, grabs him under the armpits, and shoves him against it so hard that Dennis can already feel a bruise forming. Dennis moans.

“Much better,” he says. Adrian slides his hand underneath Dennis’s shirt, reaches around the back, and scrapes him lightly with his nails. He’s too considerate to draw blood. Goddammit.

“How’s that?” he asks before kissing his neck again. Adrian slides his hand downward towards the front of Dennis’s jeans, but Dennis stops him.

“You’re not getting it,” he says. Dennis tilt’s Adrian’s face by the chin with his index finger until Adrian is staring right into his eyes again. “I need you to really hurt me. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. I need you to beat me up, fuck me unprotected, and call me a faggot. Give me Hepatitis C -”

Adrian pulls away from him so fast that Dennis slumps down the wall several inches. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He says, far too loud. Not the aggression Dennis expected, nor is Dennis very pleased to have his values and kinks judged during a sweaty bathroom fuck, but there’s still potential here if he plays his cards right.

“Oh come on,” says Dennis, rolling his eyes. “You’ve never seen a guy that looks like me on the street and thought ‘that guy deserves to be beat up’?”

“No!” yells the man. “What kind of a monster do you think I am?”

There are tears forming in Adrian’s eyes as he storms towards the door.

“A disappointing one!” yells Dennis, but it’s a pathetic last bid for aggression. Adrian gives him a wounded look as he shakily unlocks the door.

“Go fuck yourself, man,” he says. “I just don’t - I can’t -”

He doesn’t find the words before slamming the door behind him.

Dennis sighs, and stands up straight. He rubs the bruise on the back of his head, and winces. It’s as far as he’s gotten to anyone actually hurting him since he started trying a month ago. Adrian’s not the first man who cried; he’s actually number seven in the list of thirteen men Dennis has experimented with in this way. Number three of the criers had thrown up too, but he might have just been very drunk. Clearly the club scene isn’t working. He’ll have to try something else if he wants to get the fix he knows that he desperately needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So grad school is a thing and so is my new girlfriend. Not new is me writing garbage at 2am. I told myself I wouldn't write more than 1000 words today and I showed remarkable restraint. Anyway, hi! I'm back, at least for today. I don't have a tunglr account anymore but feel free to comment or email me if you wanna chat.


	9. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for violence. Mention of Mac having the intent to 'dominate' someone but there's no sex here. However, our boys do finally reunite! 
> 
> Can't believe this has been a WIP for four months. A trashy, trashy WIP.

There are a lot of things that Mac could have paid for when that sweet, sweet ATM card fell into his wallet. Mac’s in debt to at least a dozen people, and he’s defaulted on more than one credit card. He has no groceries or toilet paper and his shoes have holes in them. There might even be enough on the card to make a down payment on rent at a place of his very own. He could get a car and be a responsible, respectable adult.

Instead of all that boring bullshit, Mac has bought the best weed he’s ever had, several lobster dinners, a gold chain, and an authentic, badass katana. Not good decisions, but it’s a goddamn grift. He can live a little before getting all serious about the money. 

Besides, Dennis seemed very turned on by the prospect of Mac going to town on his bank account. Must be part of his weird masochism thing. Whatever it is, Mac’s not complaining. He hasn’t had this much money to blow since he got his first credit card, and Mac doesn’t even have to pay this back. All he has to do is dominate this bitch and the cash will continue to flow.

Mac procrastinates on dominating Dennis for the rest of the week. The power rush he gets from domination is incredible, but seeking it out requires work. Mac’s never been one to work unless it’s absolutely necessary - he’s never had a job that wasn’t a dead end, and mugging is no exception. He spends days in his room, staring up at the ceiling, drinking and smoking and torrenting kung fu movies and porn until his eyes blur and it becomes hard to tell which is which. Mac browses amazon on repeat, but he quickly becomes at a loss for what to buy. Whatever rich people shop for is a mystery, and not one that he wants on his search history.

On Monday night, hours before his time is up, Mac turns the card over in his fingers. He’s smoking a cig and watching television, a SyFy movie about a metal shark intent on death and destruction. On commercial, he turns off the television, and puts out his cigarette on the side table ashtray. Time to get to work.

The outfit Mac wears on his mugging ventures is always exactly the same. Dark hoodie, dark jeans, dark sneakers, and an unloaded gun put in his pocket. He puts extra gel in his hair to sleek it all the way back so he can see his peripheral more better. Time to hit the trail.

It’s not until five minutes into his walk that Mac realizes he and Dennis never officially settled on a spot for them to do their. . .business. He walks with his head down towards the spot where they first met, hoping that their meeting space is implied. Before he even gets to the alley, however, his suspicions are confirmed. Dennis is leaned up against a building, casually perusing his phone. As he approaches, Dennis looks up from the phone and scans his surroundings. His eyes land on Mac and he stares with his empty, disturbing eyes. Mac stops walking, and stares right back, frozen. Well, shit. There goes the anonymity and shock factor. Goddammit. He might as well have taken the man out to dinner.

After several moments, Mac decides the best course of action is to keep walking towards the alley as if he never saw Dennis. However, Dennis seems intent on ruining this for himself now (Jesus Christ, what a masochist) and doesn’t look away. He watches Mac as he strolls into his favorite hiding place in Philadelphia, and it dawns on Mac that maybe this isn’t genuine masochism at all. Dennis is intent on this being a plan and shit, Mac has never been great at figuring those out. 

Mac clears his throat. “So should I just start then?” he calls down the alley.

Dennis pockets his phone and finally stops watching Mac. “Go for it,” he says.

Mac charges at Dennis, gun out. He has him in a chokehold with the gun to his back in an instant. As Dennis struggles in a halfhearted sort of way, something very serious dawns on Mac. If he kills this douchebag by accident, this money is gone and his grift is done. Mac pushes Dennis to the filthy brick wall, much lighter than usual; hopefully Dennis doesn’t notice. He pulls out his gun, and points it at Dennis’s head.

“Gimme your cash before I blow your brains out,” he says and dammit, it hardly sounds intimidating at all. Dennis raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not scared of you,” he says, nonchalantly. “You’re all talk.”

Mac uppercuts him in the stomach so hard that the wind is knocked out of him. Non-fatal but effective. Dennis slouches down on the wall, and Mac taps the gun against his face.

“Am I really? Get on your knees, pretty boy! Or else!”

Dennis does as he’s told, and he’s rewarded with a kick in the stomach. Gasping for air he wheezes, “Unoriginal.”

Mac kicks him in the side, and Dennis grunts in response.

“Take off your clothes!” he demands.

Dennis sighs, and looks him right in the eyes. “No.”

Mac pushes Dennis’s chest with his foot until his back touches the wall. “ Get naked right now unless you want to die, pretty boy.”

Dennis doesn’t obey. He looks up at the sky and says, “I know you’re not actually trying to hurt me.”

Mac is so taken aback that he pulls his foot away. “What?”

“You’re not trying to hurt me,” he says, still looking away. “I’m not even bleeding yet. Why aren’t you hurting me?”

Dennis’s deeply puzzled look makes Mac choke back a laugh.

“I just kicked you in the stomach a bunch of times, dude.”

Dennis looks back at him, and rolls his eyes. “Anybody can do that. Where’s the danger? Where’s the anger? Where’s the suspense?”

Mac sighs. “I don’t really know how there could be danger and suspense when you watched me get into place, dude.”

“I don’t really see why it matters what I was doing. I was counting on you to be scary,” he says, exasperated. “You didn’t even draw blood this time. I mean, for Christ’s sake, what gives?”

“What do you even want me to do?” cries Mac at the frustrated, dirty man in front of him. “Kill you?”

“You could at least try!” says Dennis. “I mean, God, what am I paying you for?”

“Nothing if you’re dead, asshole!” Mac replies in officially the most uncomfortable conversation he’s had with this man. Which is saying a lot, all things considered. 

Apparently the uncomfortable is only just beginning, because Dennis starts to laugh really, really hard. 

“Oh shit. You’re right,” he says between peals of laughter. “You’d be shit out of luck if you killed me.”

Goddammit if the laughter isn’t infectious though. Mac starts to giggle himself. “I really would. I’d be fucked!”

Dennis wipes tears of laughter away with his filthy hand, leaving a trail of mud behind.

“Can I buy you dinner?” he says. “You just came all this way and you did try. I’m not going to let that go unrewarded.”

“Uh. . .sure,” Mac replies. An hour with this rich weirdo in public isn’t exactly how he intended to spend his evening, but Mac’s not going to pass up a free meal.

Dennis nods, and extends his hand. “Help me up?”

Mac pulls him up off the ground. Dennis smiles and says, “Good boy.”


	10. Sweater

The restaurant Dennis stops in front of is a bistro on Filbert street called Maggiano’s Little Italy. It’s nine o-clock, and the dinner crowd is starting to fade into the night, full and flushed with wine. The glow of the restaurant lights through the glass give warmth to Dennis’s pale skin, yet darken the bags under his eyes. He runs his long fingers through his hair to dust away any remaining debris. Then he turns around and analyzes Mac, toe to tip. 

“The hair, honestly-” 

He reaches out, and musses it.

“Hey!” says Mac. “What did you do that for?”

Dennis looks into his hand, now coated in gel, and makes a disgusted face.

“You look like a criminal.”

“Well, excuse me for looking hard while moonlighting as a _ thief _ ,” hisses Mac while unsuccessfully trying to flatten his hair. 

Dennis wipes his hand on the wall of the bistro to remove the sticky residue. 

“Free meal comes with my rules,” he says. “And I say the hair goes. Also -”  He unties the cashmere sweater hanging on his shoulders, and holds it out to Mac. “Put it on.”

“I’m way too muscular for that gay sweater, dude,” says Mac, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, where am I supposed to put my hoodie if I’m not wearing it?”

“Put it in the dumpster where it belongs,” says Dennis. “There’s one in the alley right over there.”

“I’m not putting my best hoodie in the trash!” says Mac. 

Dennis rolls his eyes. “This bistro closes in 40 minutes. Do you want to eat or is your dirty sweatshirt the hill you want to die on tonight?”

Mac’s stomach grumbles loud enough for Dennis to hear. His face flushes as he wrenches the sweater away. 

“I’ll wear your dumb sweater,” he grumbles as he marches towards the alley. 

“Atta boy,” says Dennis.

Mac scowls, and turns around to look at Dennis again.

“You know I could kill you at any time, right?”

“Definitely,” says Dennis with a curt nod. “Or I wouldn’t be taking you out to dinner at all.”

Mac stares into Dennis’s eyes, searching for a lie. He doesn’t find one. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says as he heads into the alley. “But no way is this hoodie going in the trash.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grad school, etc. are slowing me down but they're not stopping me. Thanks to my gf macpennis for cheering me on.


	11. Mac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for breaking up the dinner scenes so much. Busy, busy, busy. Hope ya'll enjoy!

Dennis’s old cashmere sweater fits the man surprisingly well. It’s a little tight around the biceps, sure, but his pecs and abs fill it it out in a way that would make Dennis hard if he didn’t have such mastery over his dick. The man rubs his wrists self-consciously; the feeling of cashmere is no doubt foreign on his skin.

It suddenly strikes Dennis that he’s taken to dinner and given clothes to a man whose name he doesn’t know based on his past skill in raping and mugging. Well. . .too late to back out now.

“I feel weird in this dude,” says the man. He pulls at the collar with his index finger. “I look weak as shit. Someone could take me out at any minute.”

“You look like you belong at a fancy restaurant,” says Dennis. “Don’t stretch out the collar.”

“It’s too tight,” the man whines. 

“That’s how clothes are supposed to fit.” Dennis walks towards him, and touches him lightly on the shoulder. He gazes into the man’s eyes. “Believe me. It’s fine.”

“Ok,” says the man hoarsely. The old Dennis Reynolds charm - works every time.

“Let’s go,” says Dennis. He pushes the man ahead of him into the restaurant by the shoulder. 

***

Even inside the well-lit restaurant, the man’s eyes dart back and forth as though an attacker could get him at any moment. If Dennis hadn’t experienced his glorious violence firsthand, he’d assume him incapable of truly hurting anyone. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” asks the waiter when he finally comes over.

“Vodka and soda for me. He’ll have the same,” says Dennis. 

“Tequila shot too,” interjects the man. 

“Great. That will be right out,” the waiter says. He whisks away to get their drinks. Dennis scowls.

“Tequila? Really? This is a classy establishment.”

“Yeah, and unless you want pit stains on this sweater I need that tequila shot,” the man shoots back. “Have you ever considered doing tequila shots instead of, you know. . .”

The civilized world falls away in the dead air between them. A foot presses against Dennis’s chest. He chokes on cum, face battered and bloodied by a gun. A kiss, sticky and red and rough. Dennis cums without being touched.

“Stopped working,” says Dennis. “That’s all you need to know.”

The waiter arrives back with their drinks. Dennis’s companion immediately knocks back his tequila like it’s water.

“Have you decided what you’re going to order?” asks the waiter.

“Me and. . .my companion will have the prawn salad,” says Dennis.

Said companion had been reaching for his menu until he heard Dennis totally fail to say his name.

“Do you not know my name?” he asks, in an amused tone. Dennis can feel blood rushing to his face; he wills it away with all of the bodily control he can muster. “Holy shit, you don’t know my name.”

“Don’t swear so loud; it’s undignified,” hisses Dennis. The man isn’t listening; a big grin has appeared on his face. He turns to face the waiter.

“My name is Mac, and I want spaghetti.”

“Mac wants spaghetti,” says Dennis, clasping his fingers together so tight that his fingernails dig into his knuckles. “Sure, get the man some spaghetti.”

“Will that be all?” asks the waiter.

“Yep!” says Dennis loudly. He buries his face in his intertwined fingers. Momentarily, of course - retaining composure is always of utmost importance 

The waiter gives him a look (so unprofessional, honestly), gathers their menus, and says, “I’ll be out with your food in a few minutes.”

With that, he walks away, leaving Mac and Dennis alone with nobody else but yet another awkward silence. An anxious fog grows in Dennis’s brain. He sips at his vodka and soda in an attempt to get rid of it.

“Are you ok, man?” asks Mac, tentatively.

“What?” asks Dennis. It comes out sharp. Mac’s hazel eyes soften in concern. It’s surreal, really, the look on his face - an hour before he had given Dennis an uppercut to the stomach so hard that the air was knocked out of him. Mac’s thirst for violence is not incompatible with human emotion - something Dennis lost a long time ago.

“You just look kinda sick all of a sudden, like you might throw up or pass out or something,” says Mac.

“Nonsense,” says Dennis, willing his hands to steady. “This is just. . .irritation. I’m. . .irritated that you think I didn’t know your name. Of course I knew your name. I was merely protecting your privacy.”

“Bullshit, dude. You’re shaking like a junkie.” He pauses for a moment, and considers his words. “Are you a junkie coming down? You wouldn’t be the first rich guy I’ve met hurting for a buzz.”

“Just because my hands are shaking doesn’t make me a junkie, asshole. There are plenty of other reasons for hands to shake. Low blood sugar. Irritation. Plenty of shit.” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “My turn for questions. So you’re a drug dealer, then?”

“Never said that, dude,” says Mac.

“But I’m not wrong,” says Dennis. “Dealing with junkies. Carrying a gun around everywhere. Dressing like you’re ‘hard.’ Classic drug dealer shit.”

“You seem to know a lot about drug dealers for someone who isn’t a junkie,” says Mac.

“Buying ecstasy on occasion for raves is recreation, not addiction,” says Dennis.

“There is no way you only do ecstasy,” says Mac. “Not when you. . .you know.”

A lull in the conversation again. Dennis is stripping at gunpoint. His lipstick is on Mac’s jeans.

“I take pills, sometimes,” Dennis admits. No use lying to Mac when he’s already seen him so vulnerable. “Uppers. Downers. Takes the edge off.”

“Who’s your dealer?” asks Mac.

“Doctors,” says Dennis. “A dozen or so.”

Before Mac can ask any more questions, their food arrives. 


	12. Spaghetti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this is concluding a restaurant scene that I started literally a month ago - sorry! I really care about this fic and one day would like to see it to completion but fic takes a backseat to grad school. However, I just finished finals today with a 4.0 so I thought, why not write? I'm not sure how much I'll get done in the next few weeks but I hope you guys enjoy it.

Mac’s spaghetti is delicious. The noodles aren’t the cheap kind he usually buys, the sauce isn’t out of a can, and the meatball is fresh, not pre-cooked. His prawn salad sits untouched on the edge of the table. Dennis keeps glancing at the salad and then at Mac, as if Mac doesn’t know full well that Dennis expects him to eat food he doesn’t like. Mac slurps his spaghetti louder each time Dennis gives him another passive aggressive look; after all, the dude isn’t paying Mac to be the submissive in their relationship. 

Besides, Dennis hasn’t even taken a bite of his own salad. Instead he’s pushed the leaves around on his plate about a dozen times and cut the prawn into smaller and smaller pieces. No way is Mac eating food picked out for him by a dude who doesn’t even eat.

“I don’t think that prawn can get any smaller, dude,” he says, when Dennis pokes at one of the tiny pieces with his knife. Dennis glares at him, a pink tinge coloring his cheeks.

“I don’t need to be told how to eat by a man who slurps spaghetti.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to earn my keep,” says Mac, twirling more pasta around his fork. “You’re the one who wanted me to assert my dominance.”

“Food is my domain, ok? I’ll eat when and if I want to eat.” He puts down his knife on top of his plate. “I already had dinner hours ago. I just thought it would look weird if I took you out and didn’t buy anything myself.”

This is clearly a lie, but Mac doesn’t push it. Instead, he takes a bite of his spaghetti and says, with his mouth full, “So if you don’t want me to be dominant about everything, what is my role here? Cos if it was just a dom/sub leather thing, I hear there’s a real discreet bar on Locust Street that has a kink room -”

Dennis glares. “Do you even have an inside voice?” he hisses. “I’m banned from that place, ok? We didn’t see eye to eye on certain issues. That’s all you need to know.”

He picks up his fork, and stabs a lettuce leaf as if it was the person who offended him. Then he puts it in his mouth, and chews forcefully. 

Mac shouldn’t press the issue, but he can’t help himself. “What ‘issues’?”

“Safe words. Getting tested. Drug use,” Dennis replies with disdain. He stabs at his salad again. “Nonsense.”

“Sounds pretty uptight for a kink bar,” says Mac. “Are they all like that?”

“Shockingly, yes,” says Dennis. He stabs a piece of prawn, and eats that too. His forceful chewing is suggestive of a deep set yearning for violence.

It’s hot, honestly. 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that stuff with me. I don’t even know what a safe word is, I’ve never been tested, and I use drugs all the time,” says Mac. He leans back in his chair, and basks in his fullness. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” says Dennis, abruptly. “We can continue this conversation outside.” 

Dennis doesn’t ask for a check. He leaves a $100 bill on the table, and beckons Mac to follow onto the darkened city streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dennis Reynolds, edgelord extraordinaire.


	13. Responsibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this chapter. Same content warnings as the first sex scene.
> 
> I have decided after long consideration that this fic will end here. School and work are taking up quite a lot of my time and, honestly, this project would either stop here or start getting ridiculously plotty and would hang unfinished forever. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read, commented, and kudosed. It warmed my heart to have subscribers even in such a small fandom.

The cool air greets Dennis upon exiting the warm interior of the restaurant. His cashmere sweater and shorts combo was appropriate when the sun was shining, but not anymore. Autumn’s creeping fingers have ensnared the city of Philadelphia and made quick work of leaving a thin film of moisture on every surface and streaking a damp chill through the wind. Dennis shivers, and wraps his arms around himself as he presses onward. His steps aren’t aimed at a location, but a direction: away from the restaurant. 

Behind him, Mac’s heavy footsteps cause Dennis’s stomach to clench. The surreal aura of their interactions has faded; Mac is a real person with a name and a past who doesn’t belong in Dennis’s world. Yet here he is, fresh off the streets on Dennis’s invitation, a criminal who knows little of his daily life and far too much about every personal grimy detail that could destroy him and his family’s reputation in a heartbeat. Mac is now something that Dennis has never had to deal with before: a responsibility.

Mac ends up choosing their location. “I need to get my sweatshirt,” he says, stopping when they reach the alley that contains the restaurant’s dumpster.

Dennis is so lost in thought that instead of protesting Mac’s life choices, he simply says, “Ok.”

The two of them turn into the alley, and Mac crouches down to find where he threw the sweatshirt. Dennis leans against the brick wall, and moisture seeps through the back of his shirt. Small droplets of water drip onto his head. He looks up; there’s a fire escape above him with beads of water clinging precariously to its stairs. Dennis raises his hand to his hair, and ruffles through it to dry it out. To his surprise, his companion laughs.

“What’s so funny?” he says looking down at the man fishing his hand under the dumpster.

“Even the way you dry your hair out makes you look rich,” says Mac. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Dennis. 

Mac’s face lights up as he grabs hold of a piece of fabric under the dumpster and pulls. He stands, and dusts off the sweatshirt with his hand. It doesn’t make the sweatshirt look much better, but the sweatshirt didn’t look that great to begin with. He turns to look at Dennis, a grin on his face now. 

“You touch your hair like someone who has never brushed dumpster sludge out of it.”

As if to demonstrate, Mac proceeds to run his fingers through his hair and then wipe them on his pants. Dennis makes a face.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Before today I probably would have said yes cos rich people are the worst,” says Mac. “But you’re pretty alright. So mostly, it’s just funny.” He looks down at the sweatshirt he’s already wearing, and fiddles with the hem. “You should take this back.”

“You can keep it,” says Dennis. “I have a lot of sweaters just like it.”

Mac pulls off the sweater anyway. “It’s not my style. The other muggers would never let me see the end of wearing this on the street.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he grins again. He holds the sweater out to Dennis. Their hands brush as he takes it from Mac. The small brush with Mac’s body heat reminds him how cold he’s becoming. He ties the sweater over his shoulders with fumbling fingers.

Mac’s torso is pale and soft with little hair save for a trail beneath his belly button. He has no pecs of steel and no six pack. Dennis looks into his eyes, hazel and perfectly shaped like a sideways ‘D’, and his lips, naturally upturned. Mac stares back, mouth slightly open, vulnerable, and his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. He still hasn’t put on his sweatshirt.

The shift happens in an instant. A foot slams into Dennis’s stomach and a slap to his face follows. Mac pushes him down onto the ground, and kicks him in the stomach again. Then he grabs the neck of Dennis’s sweater and yells, “You think you can just boss me around all night and get away with it you little bitch?”

He throws him back down on the ground, and punches him on the cheek. Pain radiates through the jutting bone, and he cries out in pain. Mac punches him on the other side of his face and he cries out again.

“Let’s make this perfectly fucking clear,” says Mac through clenched teeth. “On these streets, I outrank you. You are  _ nothing _ .”

It hurts to breathe. The cold air in his lungs burns his throat, and his cheeks ache from the battering. Mac kicks him in the chest, and his breathing becomes even more painful. It’s hard to tell in the dark if Mac is playing a bit or if Dennis is actually in danger. Mac suckerpunches him, fist slamming all of the air out of Dennis’s chest. His eyes begin to water from the pain, and he wheezes as he struggles to find his breath. Dennis’s heart pumps in his chest, fear and and arousal and excitement intermingling. His dick gets hard and presses insistently against his daisy dukes.

Dennis looks up at Mac, searching his face for the next move. Mac’s forehead is glistening from the sweat, and his teeth gleam in the moonlight as he breathes, open-mouthed, and glares down at Dennis. Then, he puts a gun to Dennis’s head.

“It was a mistake for you to let me get my sweatshirt,” he growls. “Get on your knees.”

For emphasis, he taps Dennis on the cheek with the gun. Dennis obeys. Mac unzips his pants, and frees his erect cock. 

“Suck me off, queer. If you do a good job, I might let you live.”

Dennis takes the cock into his mouth as far as he can. Mac groans, grabs his hair, and face fucks him. 

“If you can still talk in your pathetic, girly voice after you suck me you’re doing it wrong, bitch.”

Mac pushes Dennis even further down onto his dick using the hand that has the gun. The butt of the gun sits right beneath the dip of his skull, and Dennis shivers at such a powerful weapon being rested in such a delicate place. Mac cums, sooner than expected, and Dennis swallows it down, only choking a little. Before Dennis can even catch his breath, Mac taps him with the gun on the cheek again.

“Up,” he demands. Dennis rises to his feet, and Mac points the gun at his chest. “Against the wall.”

Dennis’s heart pounds in his chest - maybe he really is done for this time. “Are you gonna kill me?” he exclaims in a hoarse voice.

“Shh!” Mac demands. He fumbles one-handed at the buttons on Dennis’s shorts, and pulls them down. Then, he licks his hand and begins to pull Dennis off. With his other hand, he puts the gun beneath Dennis’s throat. “I won’t shoot you if you cum,” he says. His eyes are glazed with a post-coital glow.

It doesn’t take Dennis very long after for him to cum. When he does, Mac holds his cum soaked hand up to Dennis’s mouth.

“Eat it,” he orders. Dennis obeys, licking every finger clean. When he finishes, Mac pulls his hand away, but continues staring in Dennis’s eyes. His gaze softens. “Did I do alright that time?”

Dennis heaves breaths in and out, in and out. He clears his throat.

“You did really well, yeah. Wasn’t. . .expecting that.”

“You made me really mad,” says Mac. His eyes crinkle again, characteristic smile returning. “I thought, well, it’s still Tuesday. Maybe give it another shot.”

Warmth pours into Dennis’s chest at the reminder of their agreement. The weirdness of the evening had cast their agreement into doubt, but dammit, Mac could deliver. If he could do this twice, well - Dennis will gladly take on this responsibility.

“You made the right choice,” says Dennis. “I’ll give you another week on the debit card.”

Mac kisses him fiercely, like the hero in a bodice-ripper. Dennis sighs into it and pretends, for just a moment, that he knows what true love feels like.


End file.
